


Quest for Fire

by HermitLibrary_Archivist



Category: Blake's 7
Genre: Action/Adventure, Angst, M/M, Mission Gone Wrong, Post Gauda Prime, Snowed In
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-05-26
Updated: 2008-05-26
Packaged: 2018-04-22 17:45:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 18,319
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4844585
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HermitLibrary_Archivist/pseuds/HermitLibrary_Archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>by Riley Cannon and Cami O'Tool</p><p> In the aftermath of his disastrous reunion with Blake, Avon faces an uncertain future.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Quest for Fire

**Author's Note:**

> Note from Judith and Aralias, the archivists: This story was originally archived at [Hermit.org Blake's 7 Library](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Hermit_Library), which was closed due to maintenance costs and lack of time. To preserve the archive, we began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in August 2015. We posted announcements about the move and emailed authors as we imported, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this author, please contact us using the e-mail address on [Hermit.org Blake's 7 Library collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/hermitlibrary/profile). 
> 
> This work has been backdated to 26th of May 2008, which is the last date the Hermit.org archive was updated, not the date this fic was written. In some cases, fics can be dated more precisely by searching for the zine they were originally published in on [Fanlore](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Main_Page).
> 
> **Original Author's Notes:**
> 
> Previously published in 'Rebel Desires 1'. Previously also archived at Liberatored. 
> 
> Sequel to 'Some Guys Have All the Luck' by Riley Cannon in 'Fire and Ice 2' and 'Small Consolations' by Riley Cannon in 'Banzine 2'.

One thing about life in the environment controlled domes, Tarrant decided, at least they didn't have blizzards.

      Maybe this snowstorm didn't quite qualify, yet, but it was hardly producing ideal conditions for a trek across Gauda Prime.  Especially as it spawned the kind of cold that cut straight to the bone, and was causing his bad leg to ache horribly.  He honestly didn't know if he could make it much further.

      Stopping to rest against a boulder, Tarrant brushed snow out of his eyes, squinting to catch sight of Avon somewhere up ahead.  He'd gone to scout for a place they could make camp for the night, but Tarrant couldn't see him anywhere now. 

      Hardly any cause for alarm, but the wind and snow created an eerie atmosphere, and somehow he couldn't keep from calling out Avon's name.  No answer came back, and he wondered how far Avon may have gone; it was all too easy to lose your sense of direction in a storm like this.

      "Avon!"  Shifting his backpack, Tarrant started to push off from the rock, felt his leg give out, and grabbed for some support as he pitched forward.  He snatched at the boulder, but the ground disappeared beneath him and he tumbled down a ravine, landing on the half-frozen ice of a stream.  The ice started to crack, water bubbling out and beginning to soak through his anorak.

                                 *    *     *

      Hearing Tarrant call for him, Avon started back to where he'd left the pilot.

      At least they would have better shelter than a tent to ride out this storm; the house he'd found might even have a forgotten store of food to help stretch their supplies, in case the weather took its time clearing and they were longer than expected reaching Vanash.  Given the way Tarrant had been favoring his leg the last couple of hours, Avon had a feeling he would welcome the chance to get off his feet awhile.

      Surely this was where he'd left the pilot, Avon thought, looking around.  "Tarrant?  Tarrant!"  _Where the hell could the idiot have gone_?

      It was probably futile to look for footprints in this snow, but Avon cast about for some sign all the same, spotting a splash of color amid the white.  Reaching for it, he found Tarrant's backpack snagged in the branches of a bush--and at the bottom of the ravine, sprawled on a sheet of ice, was Tarrant.

      "Oh marvelous."  _And how was he meant to get down there to him_? Avon wondered, seeing nothing that looked remotely like a path.  There had to be a better method of descending than the one Tarrant had found.  Avon scanned the embankment, knowing that he better be quick, before the storm got any worse.

      He locked on an area to his right.  There was something that could be construed as a footpath...if you were a mountain goat.  Although Avon supposed this really wasn't any worse than what he had encountered on Horizon.  But at least there, none of the others had been incapacitated; if Tarrant were badly injured, or --  But no, he wasn't going to anticipate trouble.  Just get down there and deal with whatever he found. 

      A few more feet...  There.  He was down and over to Tarrant, kneeling in the snow to carefully pull the pilot out of the stream, checking for a pulse.  Even as he felt the steady thrumming, Tarrant's eyes opened to gaze up at him fuzzily.

      "...Avon?"

 _Who else did he expect_?  "How do you feel?  Is anything broken?"

      "I...I don't think so."

      Avon was checking the pilot's left leg, the one that had been injured in the **Scorpio** crash, then broken by Servalan's thugs as a means of gaining cooperation from the pilot and himself, when they were captured.  The pain had been so intense, however, Avon recalled--having been forced to watch--that it had worked against the sadists, rendering Tarrant unconscious.  Unfortunately, the rebels hadn't had the best medical care available for Tarrant, and his leg had never healed properly.  He'd been left with a permanent limp, and experienced intermittent cramping that could leave the young man white-faced and shaking--and didn't do a lot for Avon's composure either.

      "I think it's all right," Avon said at last.

      Tarrant's smile was wry.  "No worse, anyway."

      "Do you think you can walk then?"

      "I think I'd better try."  Tarrant accepted the hand extended to him, leaning a little heavily against Avon.  "Where are we going?"

      "There's an abandoned farmhouse not far off."

      "So what're we waiting for?"

      Giving Tarrant an exasperated look, Avon said, "In case it has escaped your attention, we do not have a handy escalator."  But he steered Tarrant over to the _path_ he'd found.

      In real time, it probably took them only four or five minutes to scramble back to the top, but it felt like hours--pretty much on hands and knees, with Tarrant starting to slide back down at one point before Avon's hand clamped in his coat, muscles straining to hold him still, irrationally praying that the fabric wouldn't rip.  Somehow they made it, sprawling in the snow, sweating, and panting for breath.

      After a few moments, Avon sat up, rubbing a handful of snow over his face, appreciating the cold.  "Do that again," he warned Tarrant, "and you're on your own."

      Sounding unimpressed with the threat, Tarrant said, "Why did you come back for me this time?"

      Avon chose to ignore the question.

                                 *     *     *

      Yes, Tarrant agreed this was a considerable improvement over spending another night in a tent.  It was a little damp and musty, but a fire soon saw to that, making it almost snug and cozy in the main room.  Meanwhile, the antique central heating unit was slowly chasing the chill from the rest of the house.  Decidedly better than a tent.

      From where he was sprawled on a sofa, he glanced into the kitchen area, saying, "It doesn't look like this has been deserted for very long."  There was a layer of dust over every surface, but not a very thick one.  Avon hadn't found any fresh food, but there was a quantity of pre-packaged meals in one of the cabinets that were judged fit for consumption.  "That's an odd thing for a farmer to have, isn't it?"

      Putting a couple of the meals in the oven, Avon said, "The popular idea is that farmers live off their land.  Perhaps this one was not especially productive.  Or," Avon came back into the living room, holding a communicator that he tossed to Tarrant, "perhaps the last residents were not farmers."

      Tarrant examined the device.  "This isn't Federation issue."

      "No."

      "Rebels?"

      "Very probably."

      "Then they might check here, when they start looking for us."  Tarrant supposed that was no cause for alarm; if they were discovered they could surely fob the rebels off with some explanation.  After all, he and Avon were the only ones left who knew what had really happened in Blake's tracking gallery; as far as the rebels were concerned, they were great heroes.

      That they had made this attempt to run for it, however, might get some to wondering.  And he and Avon might not get a second opportunity.

      It wasn't that either of them feared the wrath of the rebels, it was that living a deception had gotten to be too much for them, especially Avon. 

      In all truth, no matter how often he re-examined his actions, Tarrant couldn't find fault with what he'd done.  With flawless hindsight, yes, he could see how there had been things he should have done differently--that was true for just about all of them.  But he could also rest easy, knowing malice had played no part in his actions; he'd only been concerned for the welfare of Avon and the others.  Maybe he was being over generous with himself, that was always a difficult judgement call, but it seemed to him that his worst sin had been a certain gullibility, or blindness, for not being able to see through Blake's hardcase bounty hunter act.  For what it was worth, he always reminded himself that Avon hadn't seen through it either--not until it was too late.

      The reason Tarrant's conscience was not wholly at ease, was because of Avon. He was sorry about Blake, but when you got down to it, the rebel had been a stranger to him.  Compared to the deaths of Vila, Dayna, and Soolin--people he had known and lived with--the rebel's death had barely touched him.  Except by its impact upon Avon.

      If it was impossible to undo Gauda Prime, it was possible to get Avon the hell away from this forsaken world.

      Well, Avon had helped him, after Deeta's death; it was Tarrant's turn to return the favor.  Planning this excursion had put some life back into Avon.  The more distance they had put between themselves and the rebels, the more Tarrant had been relieved to see an Avon he recognized again, not the man who had only been going through the motions these last months.

      He decided he wasn't about to let the rebels have Avon back; not to be unjustly tried as a hero-killer, nor to be smothered in kindness.

      Avon didn't seem particularly concerned, however.  "Even if they do think to look here," he said, settling into a deep armchair, "they won't come out until this storm is over.  We'll be long gone by then."

      "We can't go anywhere until it blows over either," Tarrant pointed out.

      "Ah," Avon smiled, "didn't I mention it?  There's a flyer in what used to be a barn."

      Tarrant sat up a little.  "In working condition?"

      "Possibly."

      "But possibly not?"

      Shrugging, Avon said, "I should think that, between both of us, it can be made to get us to Vanash at least."

      Well, Tarrant sank back down on the cushions, that was the best news he'd had in awhile.  Over optimistic perhaps, but if Avon wasn't going to worry about it right now, neither was Tarrant.

      "Do you suppose there's a map around here?  It could be helpful to know where we are, and how far we have to go."

      "I haven't found one yet, but there's probably one stashed somewhere."

      Tarrant nodded, noticing the aromas coming in from the kitchen, his stomach growling in response.  "Do you think it's ready yet?"

      A corner of Avon's mouth twitched, and he got up to go check, coming back with a tray for the pilot.  "Is this sufficient to ward off starvation?"

      "It's a start," Tarrant said, sitting up and enjoying the novelty of being waited on by Avon.  As he dug into his food, he was pleased to see that Avon appeared to have rediscovered his appetite as well.  Tarrant used to worry about that, too, that maybe Avon was trying to starve himself to death.  But whether it had been by intent, or apathy, the pilot was glad to see that was one more fear he could cross off now.  Having something to look forward to at last seemed to be making quite a difference in the tech.

      It had taken Tarrant a long time to figure Avon out, and he was still probably clueless about some things, but with all the time spent together with no crew or crisis to distract them, it had been inevitable that they learn a few things about each other.  Somewhat surprisingly, a lot of the discoveries had been pleasant ones.  After all the games and power plays, it had been rather nice to discover that they might actually like each other.  Even with all the macho nonsense, there had always been a certain camaraderie, a mutual respect.  Now Tarrant thought it would not be incorrect to say they were friends.

      Of course Avon had never said a word that indicated he shared Tarrant's new outlook--and the pilot didn't expect him to.  That had been the hardest, and most enlightening, lesson to learn about Avon: that what Avon said, and what he did, were often at variance.  Not a new discovery by any means, but before Tarrant had always been stumped as to what to make of the apparent contradictions--where to place the import.

      What mattered most, for instance, that Avon had come within a hairsbreadth of shooting him en route to Terminal, or that, earlier, Avon had been equally close to confiding in him?  Tarrant was sure of the answer now, but it had taken time, and experience, to come to terms with that and other incidents.  He wished it had not taken Gauda Prime to bring it about, but all too often it seemed to him that the old parable (or whatever it had been) was true: that anything that really mattered could only be purchased at great cost.

      As far as Tarrant was concerned, he and Avon had purchased a considerable portion of happiness by now.  Or, if not happiness, at least something that didn't hurt, that wasn't so much of a struggle.  He knew Avon felt a debt was owed, for Blake's death, and that would mean some future action against the Federation...  But please, not right this minute.

      Right this minute, feeling wonderfully replete and cozy, all Tarrant was inclined to do was snuggle down on the couch and sleep for a couple of years.

                                 *     *     *

      Wondering what had Tarrant so quiet and thoughtful, Avon didn't miss the way the younger man looked to be settling down for the proverbial long winter's nap.  There were perfectly good beds upstairs, but if Tarrant was comfortable where he was, Avon wasn't going to bother him.  Tucking a downy comforter closer around the pilot, Avon then dimmed the lights, put another log on the fire, and went up to one of the bedrooms.  He wasn't especially sleepy, but it probably wouldn't hurt to get some rest.

      It wasn't likely they would be able to leave first thing in the morning--not likely at all, he decided, drawing back a curtain to watch the snow still coming down, the flakes so fat and lazy.  Unless there chanced to be a sudden thaw in the morning, he and Tarrant were likely to be snowed in here for a few days.  Their circumstances could be quite a bit worse, however, and in any case they were going to need time to work on the flyer.

      Hard to believe they were so close to leaving Gauda Prime behind.  Of course it would probably be necessary to locate alternate transport off GP, as Tarrant's old associate had likely moved on when they hadn't shown up at the agreed time.  Quite a small problem though, compared to everything else, and Avon didn't intend losing sleep over it.

      Folding his clothes on a chair, he slid between the sheets--fresh from a linen cupboard--head turned on the pillow to watch the snow drift down.  There was something very soothing about that, lulling him not to sleep but to a state where memories came easily...that time on Bandajar[1], with Blake, when they had gone to talk with the leaders of the planet in hopes of gaining their support of the resistance, then having to retreat to a cabin in the hills, when a representative of the Federation arrived with the same intent--and proved to be none other than Supreme Commander Servalan.

      Very...revealing, those few days alone with Blake.  He could still remember the rebel's touch, the first kiss that had been so shy and startling to both of them--the fire that blazed between them.  And the chill he'd felt when the rebel vanished...the coldness that had possessed him since he had stood over Blake's body, realizing he'd killed his heart's best treasure.

      He had one last duty to discharge, to see that Tarrant was safe somewhere; and after that...well, it wouldn't much matter.  With Roj Blake gone from this life, what was the point of _after_?

                                 *     *     *

      Tarrant woke suddenly from some dream, the details instantly lost, just something vaguely disturbing around the edges.  For the moment he couldn't work out where he was, and when it did click he wondered what had become of Avon.  Unaccountably lonesome, he stood up, groaning a little at the ache in his leg, careful not to put too much weight on it.  Falling asleep on the couch may not have been the best idea, he thought, as a number of little pains began to make their presence known.  He may not have done himself a serious injury, falling down that slope, but it surely had not been good for him either.

      Reaching to massage the stiffened join of neck and shoulder, Tarrant supposed Avon must have opted for a more sensible bed upstairs.  There was no need to go check on him, and his leg might object to climbing those steps at the moment...  For some reason though, it was important that he know for sure where Avon was.  Odd, too, considering they had been sharing quarters for months now; he ought to welcome some time alone, some privacy.  Avon surely did.

      All the same, he draped the comforter around his shoulders, and holding onto the banister with one hand, began to negotiate the stairs, taking it slow.  At the top, he paused to rub a twinge in his calf.  Not too bad, no cramping anyway, he thought as he gazed down the hall, spotting one door standing open.

      Looking in, Tarrant was reassured at discovering Avon there.  Goal accomplished, he considered what to do now, not at all inclined to return downstairs, or even retreat to one of the other bedrooms.  Not when the bed in there was already nice and warm, and appealingly occupied--with plenty of room to spare.

      Approaching the bed, Tarrant quietly shed his trousers and pullover, hesitated about going any further, and finally settled for lying down with the comforter wrapped around him, regretfully leaving Avon alone under the bed covers.  Though they had shared quarters, this was the first time they had shared a bed, and Tarrant wasn't quite brave enough to assume that Avon would welcome the intimacy.

      Tarrant held very still as Avon stirred, shifted closer to him, an arm falling across Tarrant's chest.  Now this could get a bit tricky, the pilot thought, desperate not to react to that careless, accidental touch.  A resolution proving more difficult by the moment as Avon's hand seemed inclined to roam, fingers inching up to snag in his curls.  Something suspiciously like a satisfied sigh came from the tech, with him edging closer, the dark head burrowing into the younger man's shoulder.

      In the months since the debacle at Blake's base, Tarrant had often wondered if a physical relationship was what Avon needed to help him recover.  There had been times at the rebel base when he would have welcomed that kind of attention; nights when he'd found himself longing to crawl into Avon's bed, to share the comforting closeness of another body if nothing else.  But the older man had never provided any clues that he might want that, until now.  Maybe Avon wasn't as disinclined as Tarrant had thought. 

      He shifted a little, to slip an arm around Avon's back, pulling him closer, his body wishing the other man would wake up all the way so they could do something more about all this.  Still, this wasn't so bad, just being close, even if it was only for these few hours.  Cautioning himself not to read too much into it, Tarrant's desire soon succumbed to sleepiness, and a feeling more akin to tenderness, with just a twinge of anticipation--and worry--as to how everything would be in the morning.

                                 *     *    *

      Drifting towards wakefulness, Avon was comforted by the sense of someone near, and smiled as his questing fingers encountered a familiar tangle of curls.  Of course...it had only been a particularly nasty dream, vividly real at the time, but nothing more than the workings of an overtired mind.  He didn't particularly want to dwell on it either, probe its significance.  There could be no significance: there were no possible circumstances in which he would harm Blake.

      "Roj?"  Avon raised his head, needing to see Blake and reaffirm that the universe was as it should be--and felt as if he'd been kicked in the belly as Tarrant's sleepy blue eyes gazed back at him.

      Everything flooded back, the terrible memory of those few minutes when he had believed Tarrant's words..and taken Blake's life.  He pushed away from the pilot, climbing out of bed and pacing over to the window, not really seeing the snowy landscape outside...but instead replaying those final moments over and over.  Why had he done it? he asked himself, for about the thousandth time.  How could he have listened to Tarrant, and not to Blake?

      A hand fell on his shoulder, and Tarrant said, "Avon, what's wrong?"  Both hands slid down his chest to encircle his waist.  "Maybe I can help."

      "Take your hands off me," Avon told him, a warning note in his voice.

      "Avon..."

      Turning, Avon gave Tarrant a vicious shove that sent the younger man stumbling back to crash onto the rumpled bed.  Heedless of the bewildered...hurt...look on Tarrant's face, Avon grabbed up his clothes and fled the room, slamming the door behind him.

      The odd thing was, it wasn't even Tarrant he was angry with.  It was Blake.

                                 *     *     *

      Staring at the slammed door, Tarrant wished he knew what had gone wrong.  All right, maybe he'd presumed too much, overstepped the bounds, but Avon's (over)reaction was just as uncalled for.  A simple, "Knock it off, Tarrant," would have sufficed.  He wasn't so hard up for sex that he was going to force his attentions where they weren't wanted.

      He had a feeling there had been more to it than that.  Standing up and going over to the window, he watched as Avon emerged from the house and headed for one of the outbuildings, and wondered if he would ever really understand the other man.  No sooner did he feel that he'd finally gained some insight into Avon, then something occurred to turn everything inside out again, and he was beginning to wonder if it was even worth the effort.  Maybe the best thing to do, once they left Gauda Prime behind, would be to go their separate ways.  You didn't stay with someone just out of habit, simply because it was what you were used to; there had to be something more, something in common...some reason to give a damn.

      Tarrant guessed Avon wasn't up to giving a damn anymore, and he couldn't say he really blamed him.  Sometimes Tarrant thought he'd just about reached his limit, too.

      Stretching some of the stiffness out of his lanky frame, he decided to hunt up a shower and a change of clothes, then get some breakfast.  Maybe by then Avon would have cooled off and be willing to accept some help in working on the flyer he said he'd found.  The sooner they got to Vanash, the better.

                                 *     *     *

      Focused on the mess of wires before him, Avon wasn't aware of company until Tarrant stuck a steaming cup of coffee in front of him.  Blinking, he accepted the cup, straightening up and avoiding the pilot's eyes.  If it was all the same to Tarrant, Avon would as soon ignore what had happened this morning.

      "Want a nutribar?" Tarrant asked, proffering one of the foil-wrapped quicmeals that had been left behind by the rebels.  When Avon shook his head, the pilot tore open the wrapping, sinking his white teeth into the bar, crunching the nuts and grains.  "They're less noxious than they look," he commented as he took a turn around the flyer, poking and prodding.  "You need to keep your strength up."

      "I'm quite able to look after myself," Avon said.

      "Able--but disinclined to bother?"

      Wondering what that was supposed to mean--but not about to ask--Avon instead said, "The only thing I can find seriously wrong with it," he indicated the flyer, "is that it's low on power."

      "Is there a charger here?"

      "I haven't found one yet."

      Nodding, Tarrant looked around the barn.  "Funny someone would go off and leave a perfectly good flyer behind."

      "Not if whoever it was wanted to be sure of having emergency back up transportation on hand."

      "Which means there must be a charger here somewhere."

      "But not out in plain sight--where any thief might find it."

      "Hmm...  To bad we don't have Vila--he'd have probably found it in a flash," Tarrant said--and Avon thought it was odd that hearing Vila's name didn't bring any pain or feelings of regret now. 

      Tarrant crumpled the wrapper of the nutribar and tossed it on the table, where he'd placed a thermos and a carton of the quicmeals.  "I found a map of the area," he said.  "If I've worked it out correctly, we're about thirty-five kilometers northwest of Vanash.  So much for navigating by the stars and sun when the cloud cover makes them near invisible."

      Thirty-five kilometers...  On foot, in this terrain and weather.  It might as well have been three thousand, Avon thought.  They must have gotten badly turned around in the storm, which made it doubly fortunate that this farm had been out here to be stumbled across.  If not for that touch of providence it was only too probable that they would have either starved or frozen to death out in that forest.  With the flyer though, they could be in Vanash before nightfall.

      If they could find a charger, and if the power wasn't too low.

      Putting down his cup, Avon helped Tarrant look for the charger.

                                 *     *     *

      A thorough search of the main level failed to yield the charger.  "You don't suppose it's up there?" Tarrant asked, pointing to the loft that crossed the back end of the building.

      Avon studied the narrow ladder that accessed the raised platform.  "There's only one way to find out."  Looking less than enthusiastic, he checked the stability of the ladder before starting up.

      Tarrant hovered at the base, impatient that his leg required coddling.  It was already strained from their days of hiking.  Putting unnecessary stress on it when they were still so far from Vanash would be foolish.

      "I've found it," Avon called.

      Tarrant backed up to where he could see into the loft.  Avon was shifting a heavy canvas tarpaulin to one side.  Tarrant groaned when a bulky, old fashioned charger was revealed.  "How did that get up there?"

      "That doesn't concern me as much as how we will get it down."  Avon dragged the tarp to where he had room to spread it flat.  "See if you can find some rope.  I'm going to fashion a sling."

      "There's a coil of line in the storage compartment of the flyer," Tarrant remembered, going to fetch it, and realizing Avon would need his help up in the loft.

      Taking it slowly, Tarrant made it up the ladder without incurring any complications--grateful for Avon's patient accommodation of his infirmity, even while he hated the need of it.  But he wasn't going to start feeling sorry for himself; there was too much else to do, and he far preferred to enjoy this restoration of camaraderie as he and Avon worked together to shift the charger.

      It took their combined strength to lift the heavy charger onto the canvas then to lower it carefully to the floor of the barn.  "I'd like to meet the imbecile who decided to store this monstrosity up here," Tarrant said after it touched down.

      Avon rubbed at the muscles of his arms.  "No, you wouldn't," he disputed, slightly out of breath, "because whoever did it was either very strong or had a lot of friends."

      Tarrant chuckled, delighted more by the fact that Avon could joke than by the joke itself.  Getting away from the rebels had been the right decision.  Avon had been so dark and dour there, making the period while Tarrant's fracture had healed seem even longer than it was.

      "There is still work to do."  Avon's voice pulled Tarrant from his musings.  The older man was halfway down the ladder.

      "Connecting that relic won't be easy," Tarrant predicted.  "The charger and flyer are from different eras; they're not made to be compatible.  We'll have to splice smaller jacks onto the charger wires, to fit the receivers on the flyer.  Then we'll have to feed the charge slowly so that we don't overload the power circuits."

      With Avon safely down, Tarrant halted his report to concentrate on his own climb.  He proceeded with caution, allowing his strong leg to lead, then bringing the left onto the same rung before advancing the right again.

      Avon, meanwhile, had examined both the flyer and charger.  "You were right," he said with evident disgust.  "They aren't compatible.  I wonder if this charger was even meant to be used with the flyer."

      "Probably not.  I'd guess that its original purpose was to charge agricultural machines."  Tarrant limped over to the flyer and opened the drive housing.  "We'll have to _borrow_ two jacks from the distributor unit, attach them to the charger, then return them to their proper place."  It would be a routine, but time consuming job.

      Tarrant grabbed a small probe and began to gently disconnect one of the jacks, knowing that Avon would start on the other without need of further direction.  Which he did, moments later.  Tarrant smiled broadly.

      Avon caught it and sent him a puzzled raise of eyebrows in return.  "Why are you grinning like an idiot?"

      "It's difficult to explain," Tarrant said, working while he talked.  "It's because we make a good team.  We don't have to waste time with lengthy discussions or instructions.  We both know what needs done and we do it.  More than that, we trust that the other will do his part."

      "As you said, it is difficult to explain."

      "What is that supposed to mean?"

      "You are living in a dream world if you think we make a good team.  We have never, nor will we ever, get along."

      Tarrant shrugged, not believing Avon's words.  It was simply another case of Avon's saying one thing and meaning another.  "For not getting along, we manage.  I suspect that we'll be very successful smugglers."

      "You will be a very successful smuggler.  After we leave Gauda Prime, we will go our separate ways."

      "But..."  Tarrant lifted his head to stare at his companion, hoping he'd find Avon's lips curved with a teasing smile--the older man, however, was intent on his task.  "I don't understand.  We agreed before we left the rebel encampment that we'd stay together."  Not in so many words perhaps, but the understanding had been there, or so he'd believed.  "If it's your determination to take on the Federation that makes you uncertain," he went on, feeling as though he was making his way across a landscape that might turn treacherous at any moment, "I said I was willing.  Of course we'll need to acquire a grubstake first.  Smuggling..."

      "...was your idea," Avon cut in, still absorbed with his work, pulling the connector jack free and setting it aside.

      "Avon..."

      The tech looked at Tarrant now, his expression more implacable than the pilot had ever seen it.  "I have reconsidered your offer, Tarrant, and choose to decline."  And that was that, so drop it--said the look in those eyes.

      Tarrant's mind was a swirl of perplexity; he couldn't understand what had brought about this sudden change.  Planning this expedition--and beyond--had been uppermost in their minds for the last few weeks.  Avon had been looking forward to it, Tarrant was sure of that.  Nor had he imagined the other man pitching in with ideas on what to do once they were away from Gauda Prime.  Yes, the idea of turning their energies and talents to smuggling had seemed to amuse Avon, but Tarrant would have taken an oath that it held a genuine appeal to the man as well.

      Surely, Avon being Avon, he would have made it clear from the outset if his intent all along had been for them to go their separate ways.  It wasn't Avon's way to humor anyone.  They only had each other--why would Avon prefer to go it alone?  Then the answer to that hit him with all the force of a physical blow.

      Feeling unaccountably drained, he walked to where Avon squatted beside the charger.  "You blame me, don't you?" he said in a hoarse whisper.

      "For what?"

      "For what happened."  Tarrant felt an anger rising in him that Avon was making him spell it out--and he'd been fool enough to suppose they'd gotten past it.  Gauda Prime would always be between them though.  "For my mistake.  For telling you that Blake sold us."

      The probe slipped from the tech's hand, dropping silently to the soft earth floor.  Slowly Avon's head twisted about until he was gazing up at Tarrant.  His face was such a mixture of genuine surprise and despair that Tarrant immediately realized he'd guessed wrong.

      But if Gauda Prime wasn't the reason, then...what?  Before Tarrant could ponder the question further, Avon distracted him, straightening from his crouch as he said, "I don't blame you, Tarrant.  Not now.  I did at first.  Your words did...precipitate the shooting, and you made a handy scapegoat."

      "I truly believed that we had been betrayed.  Blake put on a very convincing show."

      Avon's eyes glazed over, taking on the sad introspection that had become common since their rescue by the rebels.  "I realize that."

      Moving like a sleepwalker, Avon drifted to the barn's only window.  A layer of frost on the outside gave the impression that it was riddled with a thousand tiny cracks.  Tarrant watched as Avon traced one finger along the jagged pattern of lines and murmured a single word--he thought it might have been illusions.

      Tarrant tensed, expecting something to shatter.  The glass?  Avon?

      But Avon's voice was steady, if a bit husky, when he spoke again.  "Blake and I are responsible for what happened.  He was playing a stupidly dangerous game, and I was too quick to believe the worst.  We both should have known better."

      "You hadn't seen him for years," Tarrant argued, not liking this turn of conversation at all.  "It was a mistake.  A tragic breakdown in communications.  It wasn't anyone's fault."

      "Whatever," Avon braced his shoulders then turned around to stride back toward the charger.  His demeanor was calm and purposeful but his eyes were desolate.

      Tarrant cursed himself for bringing up the subject of Blake's death but, still, he had to know why Avon insisted that they separate.   He shifted, blocking Avon's path and preventing him from reaching his goal.  "If it wasn't that, why did you change your mind about our staying together?  Was it because of this morning?  I shouldn't have approached you, I know.  I was trying to help.  I won't do it again."

      "Don't be stupid," Avon scolded, sounding slightly discomfited.  "I would hardly alter my plans because of something as insignificant as your putting your hands on me.  I'm a mature adult; it's not as if I haven't been touched before."

      "You reacted so strongly," Tarrant said, trying not to be hurt that Avon had dismissed his fondling as _insignificant._   "I assumed I offended you."

      "I was not angry with you.  Actually," Avon drew in a soft, sad breath, looking as though he had come to a difficult decision, "it had nothing to do with you.  Last night...I was dreaming of Blake.  When I woke up, I found you...where I expected him to be."

 _Oh gods!_   Tarrant was left speechless.  _They were lovers.  No wonder..._

      "What Blake and I shared was unique," Avon continued.  "That only comes along once in a person's lifetime."  Avon paused and pulled at his lip.  His expression gentled to a dreamy contentment, giving the impression that he was lost in thoughts of some happier time.  With Blake, no doubt. 

      Exposed to what appeared to be Avon's intimate memories, Tarrant felt like a voyeur.  He pivoted, intending to walk away, to allow the man some privacy, but Avon stopped him with a hand to his arm.  "I said more than I intended.  I trust you now understand why it would be impossible for us to remain together.  It is nothing personal, Tarrant."

      Not sure how to respond, Tarrant nodded.  Then Avon released him, permitting him to return to the drive unit.  He angled his hands into the mechanism but couldn't begin to concentrate on what he was supposed to be doing.

      Staring at the tangle of wires, Tarrant attempted to sort through the maelstrom that battered at his emotions.  It was all too much to take in at one time.  Avon was leaving him, and Tarrant still didn't really understand why.  It was a personal rejection, though the older man might not realize it.  Tarrant, himself, hadn't realized it until Avon had admitted his love for Blake.  Tarrant's first, totally unexpected reaction to that revelation had been jealousy. 

      Last night, this morning, and for who knew how long before, he had desired Avon.  It hadn't been only concern that had prompted his arms to circle Avon's waist; lust had been involved.

      A moment of mental hysteria bubbled through Tarrant as he reflected on his ironic timing.  He had discovered his attraction for Avon at the same moment he had learned of an unbeatable rival.  How did one compete with a much beloved ghost?  If he had ever had any chance with Avon, the events on Gauda Prime had surely squelched them.

      Squeezing his eyes shut, Tarrant berated himself for the ultimate stupidity of bestowing his affection on the personification of indifference.  That he had done it without conscious volition wasn't any consolation.

                                 *     *     *

      Tarrant had become unusually quiet, for which Avon was grateful.  As much as it had been a relief to tell someone of his feelings for Blake, it was not a subject that he wanted to discuss in detail.  It was enough that he had said it aloud, as a tribute to what they had shared.  Besides, those memories were all the sweeter for being somewhat fogged by time; recalling them in greater detail would mean remembering the pain and disappointment along with the joy.

      From a purely practical angle, it was certainly best that Tarrant knew so that he'd understand why it was impossible for them to stay together.  Avon had nothing left to give anyone.  Whatever idiotically romantic notions Tarrant might be entertaining, the young man needed to be shown that it was sheer folly.  Natural enough perhaps, given the time they had been together--especially these last few months.  He supposed it was inevitable that a certain, temporary bond be forged between them.  Once they were away from GP, the bond would diminish and eventually disappear, and Tarrant would surely see that it was the best thing.

      If anything, Avon had well proven himself a liability to those foolish enough to grow close to him.  Tarrant's survival instincts alone ought to tell him he would stand a better chance of living to a ripe, old age far removed from Kerr Avon.        

      Clearing his mind, Avon returned to the tedious job of splicing the jack to the charger coil.  There were six separate wires that needed wound about small, individual sprockets.  It was meticulous work that didn't allow them to wear their gloves.  They both had to pause often to rub the chilled numbness from their hands.

      As he worked on his third wire, the lights flickered.  They flickered a second time, then went out and stayed out.

      "Damn," Avon exclaimed on top of Tarrant's, "This is just what we need."

      As his eyes darted about the now dark barn, Avon realized that the wind had picked up.  The gusts were rattling the building to its very foundation.  The severity of the storm was probably responsible for the power outage.

      Tarrant cracked open the barn door and peered outside.  "There's a near blizzard," he reported.  "I can barely see the house."

      "We'll need to get the torches from our packs to finish."  Avon pointed to the charger that was just a shadowy rectangle in the dim light.

      "Should we bother?  Without a power source, the charger is useless."

      "The problem might be exclusive to the barn," Avon reasoned.  "If it is, we can move the flyer and charger into the yard, and run a line from the house."

      "That's possible."  Tarrant sighed heavily.  "To the house then?"

      The short trip to the farmhouse was torturous.  More snow had fallen while they had been in the barn.  In addition, it had drifted.  In places they had to wade through accumulations that were up to their knees, while skirting around the deepest drifts.

      Avon glanced over his shoulder to see how Tarrant's leg was managing, and was rewarded by a stinging onslaught of snow particles flung at him by the gale force winds.  Shielding his face with his arm, he determined that Tarrant was following close behind and forged on.  He was breathless by the time he reached the porch.

      "No power," Tarrant said, stumbling after Avon into the shelter of the main room.  "I had left lights on."

      Avon palmed the light switch anyway.  There was no response.  "The problem is likely the solar collectors on the roof, but we should check the generator."

      "Those collectors were relics before I was born," Tarrant grumbled.  "And not the best energy choice for this climate.  The system was probably chosen by the same person who put that charger in the loft."

      "Perhaps they had no choice.  This is a frontier world."  Avon folded back the double doors, exposing the closet where the generator was housed.  "At any rate, it explains the fireplace down here and the wood stove in the main bedroom upstairs.  They would need an alternate power source."

      Tarrant clomped noisily over to hover at Avon's back, a torch gripped in his hand.  "Neither the fireplace nor the stove will power the charger."

      "But they will keep us warm."  With Tarrant directing a beam of light to each section in turn, Avon examined the generator for a malfunction.  Finding no obvious problem with the unit, he turned and almost bumped into the pilot.  Gently, he pushed him aside.  "The former residents were practical in one respect--there's enough wood for an entire winter in a shed by the back door."

      Tarrant wasn't cheered.  "I hope that doesn't mean that we can expect to be snowbound until spring."

      By the time they had secured what they estimated to be a day's worth of wood, the outside had turned into a solid wall of white.  Even if they had a working flyer, it would be impossible to go anywhere in the storm.

      They were both sweaty and grimy from hauling the logs.  Drawing lots, Avon won the privilege of using the one bathroom first.  He didn't linger in the shower.  The water and the upstairs were quickly growing cold, making the environment unpleasantly chilly.  Later, they would need a fire in the woodstove, to make the bedroom habitable for sleeping.

      Refreshed, Avon realized that he hadn't eaten all day.  Hot food sounded very tempting.  It would be easy enough to fashion a makeshift oven in the fireplace, to warm two of the pre-packaged meals.  He began to root through the kitchen cupboards in search of a large pot.

      Concentrating on his cooking project, it was some time before Avon realized that the house was unnaturally silent.  Oh, there was the expected crackling from the fire and whistling of the wind, but there should also have been the rattling of water through the pipes, given the state of the plumbing.

      Avon searched his memory and could recount Tarrant's uneven footsteps on the stairs and in the hall above, then nothing.  The quiet was hardly cause for concern; he would have heard a fall. 

      Unsure why he thought it necessary, Avon decided to investigate.  He found Tarrant in the master bedroom.  He was white-faced on the floor, grasping the upper portion of his left boot.

      "A cramp?"  Avon dropped beside the younger man, knowing that was the problem.  One of the complications of the unsatisfactory healing was that the muscles would lock in painful constrictions.

      "Let me."  After removing the boot, Avon pulled at Tarrant's heel, coaxing the muscles to stretch, while his other hand gently kneaded the calf.  The treatment had proved effective in the past.  It was several minutes before the hard mass gradually began to relax.  "You should have called me when you first felt the spasm.  How long were you sitting here?"

      Tarrant leaned back, bracing his hands on the wood floor for support, and closed his eyes.  "I thought I could manage, but I couldn't get my boot off."

      Avon continued the massage, extending the treatment to include the entire length of leg.  "Is that better?"

      "Yes."  Tarrant blinked open his eyes.  "Thank you."

      "Try moving it."  Avon kept his hands on the calf while the younger man cautiously bent and flexed his leg.  He could sense a tensing in the muscles from the mild exercise.  "I don't like the feel of that," he said.  "Take off your trousers and I'll rub in some of the ointment that the medic gave you."

      "That's not necessary."  Tarrant lurched abruptly to his feet, ignoring the hand that Avon instinctively offered in support.  "I'll do it myself after I bathe."  Balancing on his right leg, he pivoted about and sat heavily on the bed beside his pack.  It was open, with part of its contents spread across the comforter.

      Avon watched as Tarrant gathered a stack of clothes.  "Do you need any help?"

      Tarrant tilted his head to look directly at Avon.  There was a fleeting hint of wistfulness in his blue eyes, then he squared his shoulders and said, "Not really.  I'm still able to wield a washcloth by myself."

      The irony in Tarrant's voice reminded Avon that the young man wasn't having an easy time of it, adjusting to his infirmity.  They were quite the pair of misfits.  Fortunately, Tarrant's profession didn't require sturdy legs.  He'd manage once he was back in space.  For himself, Avon didn't see any promise of relief, which was as it should be, considering his crime.

                                 *     *     *

      In deference to his leg, Tarrant had opted for a bath over a shower.  He perched on the edge of the tub and tested the temperature of the water flowing into it.  Not promising.  His warm, soothing soak was going to be a bone-chilling dunk.  Grimly, he decided that might be for the best.  Once the pain had eased, Avon's hands gliding over his leg had sent warm waves pulsing through Tarrant's groin.  If it had continued any longer, he was sure he would have had an erection.  What an embarrassment that would have been.

      Gingerly, Tarrant eased into the frigid water.  Goosebumps erupted on his skin and he hurriedly began to scrub the sudsy washcloth over his face.

      As soap stung his eyes, Tarrant considered the torment and misery that encompassed Avon.  There was a lesson to be learned from his tortured psyche: that there was a danger in loving too much.  However extraordinary the highs might be, there could be an equally dark pit to welcome you at the other end.  Now Tarrant feared that he was falling into the same trap.  The safe course of action would be to distance himself from Avon until they parted; that could help make the final separation easier to face, for one thing.

      Even as the thought occurred to him, however, Tarrant dismissed it as a selfish, cowardly choice.  Avon needed him.  He was sure of that.  He couldn't sit back while Avon pursued his self destructive path, not even to protect himself.  Not even if Avon fought him every step of the way.

      That had become second nature anyway.  In fact, now that he thought about it, all that fretting over Avon while they were with the rebels, his determination to get Avon away from them, ought to have clued him in that he'd had strong feelings about Avon for a long time.

      He'd just never suspected how deep those feelings went.

      And he couldn't quite banish a wish that they would be reciprocated.

      After rushing through his bath, Tarrant hurriedly dried and dressed.  He was eager to return to the warmth of the main level, especially with his sodden curls sending chills through his body.

      When he descended the stairs, he saw that Avon had maneuvered the sofa to where it caught the heat flowing from the fireplace.  He was sitting there, bent over a small table, stirring a spoon through what might have been a bowl of stew.   

      "The food is hot," Avon directed with a nod.

      Avon had set out a dish and utensils for him.  "You're getting to be quite the domestic," Tarrant teased, drawing a small scowl from Avon.  Grasping the bowl, he bent down on one knee to reach the pot resting by the hearth.  It aggravated the soreness in his leg and a small "uh" slipped from his lips before he could stop it.

      "Is your leg still bothering you?"

      "A twinge.  Nothing serious."

      "If the power can't be restored, we will have a long walk to Vanash."

      "I realize that."  Tarrant set the filled dish on the table to leave both hands free for the awkward shift from floor to couch.  "It won't be a problem."

      Avon studied him a minute, making Tarrant uncomfortable, but he let the subject drop.  "What started out as a promising day has turned into a disappointment."

      "In more ways than one," Tarrant sighed, then in a normal voice added, "We should look on the bright side.  We have adequate shelter, food," he paused and grinned cheekily, "good company."

      "And terrible whiskey."  Avon held an almost full bottle of amber colored liquid aloft.  "I found this in the kitchen.  Let me pour you some and you'll soon understand why it was abandoned."

      Tarrant took a cautious sip and still almost choked as the caustic liquid burned his throat.  "It goes down as easy as glycolene."

      "I did warn you.  Have some water."  Avon slid a second glass his way.

      Sipping it, Tarrant scanned the room.  The light filtering in through the windows was an anonymous gray, prompting him to ask, "What time is it?"

      "Mid afternoon and no respite in the weather so far.  From what the rebels told us, a storm of this magnitude is unusual.  I'm hoping that means that it will wear itself out soon.  If it's clear in the morning, I'll climb onto the roof to see what is amiss with the collectors and determine if it is repairable."

      "If it is, I could finish the jacks while you did that."

      "My thoughts exactly, which gives us the rest of the day to relax."

      Tarrant considered that a luxury.  Though he had spent more than enough time on his back while his bone had mended, he had always been on edge, worrying about Avon and whether the rebels would discover who had shot Blake.  Even the painkillers hadn't dulled his apprehension.  It would be good to have half a day free of worry or obligation.

      "I could get used to a life of leisure," Tarrant said later.  He had finished his meal, propped his feet on the table, and was working on his second serving of whiskey.  He waved the glass in the air.  "This is even starting to taste less like toxic waste."

      "You must be drunk."

      "Not yet, but I'm working on it."

      "Don't work too hard.  I prefer to drink my share slowly.  I'd like it to be there when I'm ready for it."

      Tarrant glanced at Avon's profile and felt a reflexive tightening in his chest.  The tech looked poignantly alluring illuminated by the flickering flames.  The golden glow gave his hair an auburn cast and softened his features to a mellow sweetness. 

      "The firelight is very flattering," Tarrant said, keeping his voice steady with effort.  "I took a first calendar literature course at the Academy.  Being marooned in the wilderness with a fireplace was a popular romantic setting.  At the time, I didn't understand the appeal."

      To Tarrant's surprise, Avon didn't respond with derision or sarcasm.  He nodded slowly.  "Primitive conditions and isolation lend themselves to intimacy."

      Instinct told Tarrant that this had something to do with Blake.  Only that could explain Avon's melancholy.  "If he loved you as much as you apparently did him," Tarrant ventured bravely, "he would want you to be happy."

      Avon's body coiled and spun about in a second.  "How can you possibly be a judge of that?  You didn't even know Blake, yet you're presuming to speak for him."

      "Not for him, exactly," Tarrant corrected, "but how I'd feel in his place.  If...when you care about someone, their happiness means more than your own."

      "What a very naive concept."

      "Is it?"  Tarrant wrapped his arms about his chest and stared into the flames.

                                 *     *     *

      With his peace shattered, Avon gulped down the remaining whiskey in his glass.  He reached for the bottle, intending to pour more, but changed his mind.  Instead, he stood and began prowling the room, regretting that he'd ever told Tarrant about Blake.

      There were times when Tarrant's guileless view of life could be extremely irritating.  How could he begin to imagine that Blake would want his murderer to be happy? 

      Yet... Blake had forgiven him.  Avon had seen it in his eyes as he collapsed in his arms.  Dying, Blake had used the last moments of his life to grant absolution.  If only it were that easy to accept--to forgive himself.  To forget?  Oh yes, part of him longed to bury every memory of Roj Blake so deeply they could never be found again; another part of him clung to each one with miserly greed, deriving bittersweet pleasure from them.

      Tarrant hadn't meant any harm by his remarks.  How could the boy know the sense of deja vu all this invoked?  The fire.  The bad weather.  Even the abandoned whiskey.

      Avon's smile grew sad and whimsical as he considered the testimonial he could give Tarrant on the efficacy of this particular romantic setting.  He and Blake would have been drawn together in any event, Avon was sure of that; Blake's unexpected stolen kiss weeks before had awakened Avon to the possibilities, after all.  Awakened and disturbed, stirring the first embers that had finally ignited on Bandajar.  It was so pathetically easy to remember all of it: the soft sound of the rain outside, the cozy warmth of the fire, even the taste of the brandy Blake had found... not that it had been necessary for either of them to ply the other with liquor.  Not remotely.

      If he closed his eyes, Avon could conjure up the feel of phantom lips and hands...

      With an effort, Avon shook free of his memories, gazing out the window at the maelstrom.  The storm was worse than ever, the wind driving the snow so fiercely that there appeared to be nothing but a swirling ocean of white outside the glass.

      Avon felt trapped and tense, a prisoner of both the environment and his own regret.  Like a rat in a box: wherever he turned, there was a barricade of some kind.  And it was no consolation at all to know that each and every one of them had been meticulously built by himself.

      A soft scraping against the plank floor alerted Avon to Tarrant's approach.  _What did he want now?_ Avon twisted to glower at him and saw Tarrant's hand poised in the air, as if he were debating reaching out to Avon.  Blushing, he hastily jerked his arm back to his side.

      "It's warmer by the fire," Avon said, in effect ordering Tarrant away.

      "You seem comfortable enough," Tarrant countered, a faint hint of defiance in his voice.

      "I prefer the cold."

      "I can see that."  The pilot hesitated, uncertain, then plunged on, "Tell me, Avon, what magic did Blake weave to penetrate your frozen shell?"

      "Tarrant," Avon snarled the word, "you would be advised to mind your own business."

      "I'm not trying to pry," the younger man insisted, "but this walled citadel that you live in can be fascinating.  I could certainly use some of that detachment myself.  I have this bad habit of bestowing lov...loyalty where it's not always wanted."

      "I am not in the mood for your emotional excesses."

      "What about my moods?  Do you ever care what I might be feeling?"

      "No, I don't."

      A wounded expression flitted across Tarrant's face to quickly be replaced by a bleak smile.  "I guess I asked for that," he said tightly, then stalked away.

      Avon's eyes followed him curiously as his stiff, lopsided gait carried him back to the fire.  Tarrant's behavior was bordering on the peculiar.  Granted, he had to be somewhat disconcerted that they wouldn't be smuggling together.  As he had recently attested, he didn't give his loyalty lightly or half heartedly.  Avon had been aware of the subtle to not-so-subtle support that Tarrant had offered during the past few months.  Tarrant had assumed some kind of misplaced responsibility for his welfare, something that Avon couldn't quite resent, as much as it annoyed him.  That Avon could casually dismiss what Tarrant saw as camaraderie had to sting.

      Yet beyond those obvious interpretations of Tarrant's present capriciousness there was something more elusive.  If Avon had been forced to put a name to it, he might have compared it to a lover's pout, which was the height of absurdity.  Tarrant should know better than to confuse feelings of loyalty with...something quite different.  Obviously, cabin fever was affecting both of them.

      Unfortunately there wasn't anything to be done about it, not until this storm blew over.  Which meant they were in for a very long night.  What they needed, Avon decided, was a distraction to personal concerns.  Looking around the fire-lit room, Avon sought out something appropriate, eyes lighting on a chess set tucked away on a shelf.

      After he'd dusted it off, Avon carried it over to the fire, setting it on the table.  Tarrant was hunched in a corner of the sofa, morose gaze fixed on the dancing flames.  He looked around when Avon tapped his shoulder, giving Avon a questioning--hopeful?--look.

      Indicating the chess board, Avon said, "Choose your pieces."

 

      "White," Tarrant said immediately.  "I'm not one to refuse an advantage."

      Avon shrugged.  "You'll need it."

      Though Avon was probably right about that, Tarrant didn't allow any reservations to show as he set up his monarchial army.  The FSA and experience had taught him to never expose vulnerability to the enemy.  Battles had been won by sheer arrogance in the past, not that Avon was likely to succumb so easily.

      Tarrant knew that he didn't have the patience to ever become a chess master, but he was also confident of his instinctive competitive skills.  The matches proceeded as he had expected.  While Avon would ponder each move, Tarrant often had his next placement worked out before Avon's fingers left his piece.  It made for some decidedly unbalanced games.  When Tarrant won, he won brilliantly, overpowering Avon with the unexpected audacity of his tactics.  More often, Avon won, abetted by mistakes Tarrant made in haste.

      Avon refused to be distracted by conversation during the games, so Tarrant had to save all of his comments for the in-between times, when they were arranging the pieces for a new match.  As he placed his row of black pawns--black because of his recent victory--Tarrant gloated, "You almost provided a challenge that game.  With a little more practice, you might make a fine chess player."

      "Kind of you to notice," Avon purred, "especially when you consider that I'm ahead seven games to four."

      "You've been keeping count?  I thought these were practice competitions.  I've concentrated on discovering your weaknesses, not winning."

      Expecting a barb in return, Tarrant was surprised when Avon posed a serious sounding question.  "And what have you learned?"

      Tarrant considered the query then answered with equal seriousness.  "You have an exquisite grasp of the basics," he conceded, "and a marvelous talent for utilizing all of your pieces and the entire board.  But...you're almost too cautious.  You would have had me last time, if you hadn't waited to get your bishop in place for back up.  Sometimes, you need to take chances, Avon, in games and in life."

      "I think you manage enough of that for both of us."  Avon moved his king's pawn, ending the discussion.

      Eventually, the hypnotic flickering of the flames, the whiskey, the nights on the trail without sound sleep, and Avon's prolonged deliberations combined to lull Tarrant into a state of drowsy serenity.  He found that he was yawning frequently and that his attention was wavering.

      "Tarrant, your turn."

      "Yes, of course."  He stared fuzzily at the board, reached for an isolated white piece, and jogged it two squares to the right, slouching his chin back to his chest as soon as he was finished.

 

      Frowning at Tarrant's last move--didn't he see he could have had Avon's queen?--Avon glanced at Tarrant and saw the younger man was fighting a losing battle to stay awake.  Well, Avon supposed they had been playing for quite awhile; the fire had died down and it was completely dark outside--although by the sound of it, the storm had not abated much.  It was probably only early evening, but it might not be a bad idea to make a night of it.  There was quite a lot to be done in the morning, after all.

      He got up to put another log on the fire, so it wouldn't get too cold down here, then leaned over Tarrant, shaking him gently.

      "What?"  Tarrant sat up straighter, glancing around in some confusion.  "Is something..."

      "It's time for bed," Avon said--and wondered if he shouldn't have phrased that different, going by the look (as quickly masked) that flashed in the blue eyes.  "To sleep," he added, so as not to be misunderstood.

                                 *     *     *

      Upstairs, Tarrant hesitated, looking at the room he and Avon had shared the previous night, then started over to one of the closed off bedrooms.  Avon's hand on his arm stopped him.

      "None of those have beds in them, only some very uncomfortable-looking cots."

      "But I thought you objected to our...sleeping arrangements last night."

      "If you can keep your hands to yourself, Tarrant, I expect the situation can be tolerable."

      It was on the tip of Tarrant's tongue to say that Avon's had been the wandering hands, but knowing who had been the object of Avon's subconscious desire, he bit the words back.  Instead, he came up with a grin, saying, "Your virtue's safe with me, Avon."

      Giving him a skeptical look, Avon preceded him into the room.  "Make yourself useful and start the fire," he said, going over to rummage in a dresser drawer.

      Doing as instructed, Tarrant finished with the stove just as Avon disappeared into the bathroom.  There were pajamas and robe draped on the bed; he assumed they were meant for him.  For some reason that struck him as funny, as though staying all covered up could offer protection from carnal desires.

      As he stifled a yawn, Tarrant doubted he would be up to a seduction right now anyway, even if Avon were so inclined.  Sharing some closeness might have been nice though...  He sighed and took the hint, changing out of his clothes and into the pajamas before Avon came out of the bathroom.  The older man was also modestly sheathed in jammies.

      "What's funny?" Avon asked, responding to the amusement that lit Tarrant's face.

      But Tarrant shook his head, refusing to explain.  He didn't think Avon would appreciate having their sleepwear compared to medieval chastity belts.  Still grinning, he headed for the bathroom.

                                 *     *     *

      Avon made sure he was in bed, pretending to be sound asleep, when Tarrant returned.  He heard him call his name a couple of times, softly, then a sigh of resignation.  The bed shifted slightly as Tarrant slipped in and found a comfortable position.  After awhile, hearing the younger man's even breathing, Avon let himself relax, raising up on a elbow to double check that Tarrant was sleeping.

      Watching the other man's face, completely relaxed in sleep, Avon was struck by how guileless Tarrant appeared...and so damned young.  And yet, able to study him like this, the older man noted a few lines in the boy's face--and recalled the wan and weary demeanor that too often characterized Tarrant these days.

      Tending to be absorbed with his own pain, Avon didn't always notice the wear and tear life was having on those around him, but he felt he should have been more aware of Tarrant's strained appearance.  Quite a change from the reckless young gallant who had thought to commandeer the **Liberator** a lifetime ago...and Avon was bit startled to find he rather regretted the change.  Of course some of it was simply Tarrant growing up a little more, and that was no bad thing, but Tarrant's coming of age had been harsher than most.  In all this time, he'd been so wrapped up in brooding over Blake's death, it hadn't occurred to him to wonder if  Tarrant felt bereft.  Did he miss Vila, Soolin--Dayna?  Small wonder Tarrant had sought even his cold comfort...

      The curious thing was that despite everything, Tarrant retained a certain guileless quality, an innocence...a youthful zest that even the very worst of circumstances could not stamp out.  It was an asset Avon had often envied, the ability to roll with life's punches; he had never found it easy to pick up the pieces and carry on.  That was something Tarrant had in common with Blake.  He suspected that, had life dealt a different hand, Blake and Tarrant would have, eventually, got on famously.

      Settling back on his pillow, Avon tried to banish the too-sentimental musings.  Life was as it was, and all the regrets in the world wouldn't change a single thing.  Concentrating on that thought to the exclusion of all others, he closed his eyes.

 

_Sprawled comfortably in the enormous bed, Avon welcomed his lover into his arms, running his hands up and down the strong back, burying them in the heavy curls as his mouth was claimed in a breath-robbing kiss.  After an eternity, the lips slid away, grazing along his jaw, nibbling madly at an earlobe before feathering kisses down his throat, to his chest.  The man teased at his nipples with tongue and lips, hands busy stroking and fondling elsewhere.  Wanting more, he reached for the curly head again, nudging him further down, gasping as his erection was enveloped in a warm, wet mouth.  "Roj..."  He looked down at his lover, who briefly lifted his head to smile at him, only it wasn't Blake.  It was--_

 

      "...Tarrant...?"  Waking abruptly, Avon was immediately aware of an intense arousal, and that he had wound up pressed against Tarrant.  Hoping the younger man wouldn't wake up at this incredibly awkward moment, Avon very gingerly rolled away.  He perched on the far end of the bed, forcing his thoughts away from the ache in his groin, the desire that twinged through him.  After awhile, the physical sensations ebbed, but the memory was less easy to banish.

      It didn't mean anything...only that it was a long time since he'd had sex, and his unconscious mind was as whimsically impractical as anyone's.  He had simply been dreaming of Blake again.  It was only at the last that...that Tarrant had intruded.  Well, of course, he'd been thinking of Tarrant just before falling asleep, realizing the qualities the pilot shared with Blake; that's where it had come from.  That was all.  It couldn't be anything more.

      Satisfied with that explanation, Avon tried to get comfortable and go back to sleep, but no matter how he twisted and turned, he always ended too near Tarrant.  This was ridiculous.  What was he so rattled by...afraid of?  The stirrings in his body were nothing more than involuntary human reflexes, in response to sharing a bed with a comely shape.  There was no significance attached.  He did not want Del Tarrant...he didn't want anyone.

      The more his mind kept worrying at it though, the more elusive sleep became.  After a few more frustrated scrunches around, Avon gave sleep up as a lost cause.  Maybe his psyche would rest more comfortably removed form Tarrant's intrusive presence?  Acting on that impulse, he quietly climbed out of bed, gathered up a comforter that had been draped over a chair, and made his way downstairs.

      The fire was almost out and it had grown chilly, but that was quickly remedied.  When the room was lit by the glowing warmth again, Avon went to a window, pulling the curtain aside to better see the night-shrouded landscape.  The wind had died down and the snow had stopped at last.  That gave him some cause for encouragement; it was obvious that the sooner they left this place, the better.

      He was still restless, pacing the room with a fretful urgency.  Stopping before a shelf of bound books, he wondered if reading might settle him down.  It couldn't cause any more upset at least, he decided.  So far from the fire, the titles were indistinguishable from the binding.  He chose a volume at random and carried it to the sofa.

      Snug in the comforter, he examined the book.  There was no title or author, simply a plain cloth cover.  Opening it, he found not printed text but handwriting.  Frowning, he realized it must be some kind of private journal.  He was about to set it aside when something prompted him to take a closer look at the writing.  There was something... 

      A chill passed through him as he determined what had caught his eye.  He knew that script, had seen it often enough in private messages.  Brushing the page with caressing fingertips, he wondered how Blake had come to leave a private journal here.

      Was that why the rebel's presence had been so strong again, after all these months, because Blake had lived here?  Did some part of his spirit linger even now?  It would be only right and proper for Blake's ghost to haunt his murderer...

      Banishing that too-fanciful thought, Avon was sorely tempted to put the book on the fire--perhaps that would exorcise the phantom.  To read Blake's words was unthinkable...and impossible to resist.  Pity Tarrant didn't realize he was pursuing an emotional masochist, Avon thought as he flipped through the pages, letting the journal fall open at random:

 

_The base is almost complete; it's turned out even better than I expected, a very convincing facsimile of a Federation detention center.  Thanks to D and K having such detailed knowledge of how those operate._

_Despite everything, D still has reservations about the project, particularly the role I'll be playing.  to tell the truth, I have a few quivers of doubt myself.  It will be a dangerous game--I'm not oblivious to that, despite what D thinks.  Sometimes I think he credits me with less sense than even A ever did._

_After everything that's happened though, all the lives that have been lost, I can't rely on D's computers to take care of everything.  Odd how he places so much confidence in the computers, as though he can't conceive of records being tampered with, of being fed false information.  Despite the fact that he's fiddled the records in order to set all this up.  There is something to be said for A's "Incorrigible criminal tendencies"--at least he was never naively trusting of machines.  He knew that no system was invulnerable to a sufficiently skilled hackerwitz--and how easily lies can pass for truth.  I fear D may be in for some rather severe disillusionment._

_In more ways than one..._

_Hackerwitz indeed_ , Avon thought.  As though there had been anything remotely juvenile about his computer manipulations.  And so like Blake to tweak him from beyond the grave.

      He wondered who "D" had been--another computer specialist, presumably, and where Blake might have recruited him.  Possibly a lot of questions would be answered in the pages of this journal, but Avon wasn't sure he wanted to ask the questions.  Did it matter now, what Blake had been up to here?  Still, he couldn't keep from reading on, finding that it pretty well jibed with what the rebels had told him and Tarrant.  That the bounty hunter ruse had been a means of operating in the open, but unsuspected; picking out potential recruits to the cause from among the criminals who came to GP seeking refuge.  That appearances had indeed been deceiving.

      Skimming pages, Avon's eye was caught by another entry, the writing a little ragged and shaky, a barely decipherable scrawl:

 

_Couldn't write yesterday.  Don't know if I can manage today.  J's news simply won't sink in.  I keep having this mad thought, that if only I don't acknowledge it, then it can't be true._

_But then how do I explain hearing C calling out to me?  How do I explain this feeling that it was her death cry?  And if she's dead, how can the others be alive?  When it happened, I thought it was just another nightmare...wish I could believe that's all it is now.  J admits it's only rumors, but she seemed pretty certain of her sources._

_It just doesn't seem real.  If...if A was dead, wouldn't I know it?  How could I feel her death, and not his?_

_When I decided not to return to "L," I thought that was the hardest thing I'd ever done.  But at least I knew A was alive and well, that he had the freedom he said he wanted...  And of course I treasured the hope that, one day, maybe, Fate would be kind enough to bring us together again.  That in a quieter, less turbulent time, we would find each other again and spend the rest of our days together._

_My dearest love..._

      The entry stopped abruptly, which Avon decided was just as well; whatever else Blake might have written would not have been bearable.

      Closing the journal, Avon settled back, watching the flames, wondering if Blake's dream could have ever come true.  Was there ever a chance, in this life, that he and Blake could have enjoyed a quiet, normal existence?  Would either one of them have recognized such a thing, had it walked up and hit them?

      He shouldn't read anymore, he thought, even as he picked the book up again and turned to a page toward the back:

 

_I never believed life was fair.  But it still hits me hard, every time I discover how cruelly capricious it can be._

_J's dead...and now I know that A is still alive.  It's ridiculous, yes, J's death was not my doing in any way.  Except that there were so many times when I wished for news that A was alive, when I would have given anything for that...  Now I feel as though some cosmic force took me at my word, extracting J's life in return for A's.  Mad, of course..._

_At least there's been some time since J died; that was hard enough, on its own.  And I really don't want to think about it again.  There are too many regrets that way.  Not for being unable to give her the love she wanted\--because I did love her.  Just...it just wasn't the same as what I felt for A.  Nothing ever has been, not even this pursuit of freedom._

_I keep thinking I'll contact him.  It would be relatively easy--through Orac, through the resistance underground...  And then I think no, I shouldn't.  Best to let things be.  It's been more than two years since I saw him, it couldn't be the same.  Maybe he has someone else, easier on his nerves..._

_I'd like that, to think of him being happy.  There were times, with me, when he was happy.  But it was so hard to sustain, with everything else that was going on.  Too elusive for us to hold._

_I'd give anything to see him one more time, to touch him, to love him again.  And I will--maybe not in this life.  But sometime, somewhere we will see each other again and know.  This isn't all there is, it can't be._

_And I know exactly what he'd say to that...my much beloved cynic._

      Avon snapped the book closed, tossed it on the table.

                                 *    *     *

      Sitting on the stairs, Tarrant wondered what had Avon so disturbed.  A storm had wavered across his face as he sat by the fire reading.  Now only raw anguish was left in the storm's wake.  He would have liked to go over and offer whatever comfort Avon would take, but somehow he sensed his intrusion would not be welcome.  The other man appeared to be lost in thought...dreams.  Memories?

      After quietly returning to the bedroom, Tarrant crawled back under the covers, feeling ridiculously lonely.  And absurdly jealous of a phantom lover.

                                 *     *     *

      Tarrant tucked the blanket up to Avon's chin before tiptoeing from the room.  He hoped the older man would sleep in, to make up for his restless night.

      The sun was shining cheerily in the sky, brightening Tarrant's mood as he replenished their dwindling supply of wood.  That done, he grabbed a nutribar and a juice drink and settled by the fire.  The book that Avon had been reading rested conspicuously on the table.  Tarrant touched it, withdrew his hand, then snatched it up, intending only to read the title.  There was none.  Curious, he flipped it open.

      It was a diary of sorts, with line after line of scrawled handwriting.  It didn't take Tarrant long to guess the owner of the scratchy penmanship--Roj Blake.  No wonder Avon had reacted with such intensity to the book's contents.

      Tarrant fidgeted the book back and forth from hand to hand.  Where had it come from?  How long had Avon had it?  Why did he torture himself reading it when grief and regret were already overwhelming him?

      He wasn't going to read more of Blake's words himself.  The few entries he had scanned had been innocuous enough, but a personal diary was...well, it was private.  He let the book drop into his lap; it fell open to a page toward the beginning.  He traitorous eyes started to decipher the writing before he could stop them:

 

_There are days on Gauda Prime when the elements clash in a cacophony of disharmony.  The skies open up to deluge the earth with pelting rain, accompanied by the most violent lightning displays that I have encountered anywhere in my travels.  Far from being disturbed by the electrical discord, I am always fondly reminded of A.  We clashed with similar elemental fury.  But when we harnessed that energy and made it work for us--  There was nothing quite like that anywhere else in the galaxy._

      Barely resisting the urge to heave the book into the flames, Tarrant sent it sailing across the room instead.  "Damn," he swore and hurled and half-eaten nutribar after it.  _Blake and Avon.  You'd think they'd invented..._

      "Good morning," Avon said sternly as he descended the final half dozen steps to the main level.

      Startled, Tarrant reddened with guilt.  "Avon."  He scrambled from the sofa and strode to the nutribar.  "It was stale," he lied, swooping down to pick it up and pointedly ignoring the other item, the one that had provoked his bout of temper.

      "Indeed."  Moving at a more sedate pace, Avon retrieved the diary.  He dusted it off then inserted it into a waiting space on the bookshelf.

      That told Tarrant where the book had come from.  He looked around the room with growing animosity, prepared to blame Blake posthumously for leaving the journal here where Avon would eventually find it.  And be upset by it.

      "Have you checked the generator this morning?" Avon asked.  His change of subject warned Tarrant that any reference to Blake's diary was prohibited.

      Tarrant wanted to explain that he'd only perused a few entries, but he held his tongue.  Rubbing the back of his neck, he answered, "Yes.  It's still...," he caught himself about to use the word _dead_ , "...inoperational.  When I was out fetching wood, I took a good look at the roof.  The sun is slowly melting the snow.  Maybe, when the collector panels are clear, the generator problem will solve itself."

      "Possibly."  Avon strolled to a window and examined the weather for himself.  "I wouldn't want to be climbing about the roof until it was less slippery anyway."  He turned back to Tarrant.  "We could finish connecting the jacks to the charger in the meantime."

      "Get some breakfast first," Tarrant urged, his eyes taking in Avon's haggard appearance.  "It won't be that long of a job with the jacks."

                                 *     *     *

      They'd completed with the charger by early afternoon, but the collectors were still concealed under a final layer of slush.  Impatient to be doing something, Avon began to poke about the generator itself.  He found the simple mechanical work soothing.

      "Avon!"  Tarrant's voice, intruding on his peace, was sharp, compelling.

      Instantly, Avon understood why.  The wilderness quiet was being invaded by a rhythmic whirring.  "Flyers," he hissed.  "Where's your gun?"

      "In my pack in the bedroom."

      "Douse the fire," Avon commanded even as he realized that Tarrant was already doing just that.

      Avon mounted the stairs two at a time then made a mad dash for the bedroom.  He grabbed their guns and extra clips, and darted out again.  The drone of the flyers was growing steadily louder.

      "I've smothered the fire," Tarrant said. 

      Avon tossed him a gun and raced to a window.  "They'll have already pinpointed our location."

      "It might be someone on routine business, who doesn't even care that anyone is out here."

      "Not on Gauda Prime.  It will be Federation, bounty hunters, or rebels."

      "We could make a run for it," Tarrant suggested.  "Once we reach the trees, we'll have plenty of natural cover."

      "They would have no trouble tracking us through the snow,"  Avon's eyes went to Tarrant's left leg, "and it is unlikely that we could outdistance them."

      "You could.  Go in the woods.  Hide.  Disguise your trail.  I'll delay them.  They might not even realize that there are two of us."

      "Too late." 

      Two flyers dropped from the sky.  The air jets from their exhaust disturbed the snow, blurring the clearing with frothy curtains of white.  Seven shadowy figures emerged from the vehicles.  Two hung back while five approached the house, guns drawn.

      "It's Vier and his people," Tarrant said moments later.  "What are we going to tell them?"

      "That we went for a walk and got lost," Avon answered with full sarcasm.  "Let me do the talking."

       Avon slipped the gun into his belt and opened the door.  "Hello," he called, waving a welcome to the advancing rebels.

      "Avon!  What are you doing here?  Why did you leave?"

      Stepping aside, Avon allowed the five men to enter.  "There are matters that I wish to attend to that can't be handled from Gauda Prime.  Tarrant made contact with someone from his smuggling days who agreed to take us off planet.  We were to meet him in Vanash but got turned around in the storm two days ago."

      "Why keep it a secret?  We could have flown you to Vanash."

      Avon turned his back on the group to study Tarrant, camouflaging the move by making it seem like part of a restless pacing.  The younger man was standing tense and ready for combat.  Both hands dangled at his sides, but one held his gun and the other was clenched into a tight fist.  Avon glared his disapproval while answering Vier's question.  "I have learned that the fewer people who know my plans and whereabouts, the safer I am."

      "That's true enough," Vier acknowledged.  "Still, I'm glad that we found you.  We've received some disturbing reports.  The Federation is claiming that Blake was already dead when their troops arrived."

      A pounding ignited in Avon's head at mention of Blake's name.  It was so strong as to be physically debilitating.  Fortunately, his pacing had him near a large desk.  He settled on the edge, grateful for its support.  "Propaganda," he said through a haze of pain.

      "That's what we thought at first," said Jeries, a giant of a man with a full, dark beard.  "But there's more."

      "Avalon obtained a copy of the autopsy report," Vier continued.  "Blake was not killed by a Federation weapon."

      "They might not have carried standard armament," Tarrant contributed.  "That isn't unusual.  They had no authority on Gauda Prime.  They would hardly want to advertise that they were responsible for a massacre."

      "Yet advertise it they did," Jeries pointed out.  "They were quick to announce how they wiped out a nest of _vermin_."

      "There is another problem with your theory," Vier said in his clear, precise voice.  "They were carrying standard armament.  Your wound was caused by a Federation issue plasma gun, Tarrant.  Your companions were also shot by Federation weaponry, except for the one female."

      "That female had a name, Dayna.  Arlen killed her and Deva."

      "We've told them all that," Avon interjected, trying to hush Tarrant.

      "Who killed Blake?" Vier asked, his eyes moving from Avon to Tarrant then back.  "You never told us that."

      "Why didn't you tell us?" added Jeries, sounding suspicious.  "You let us assume it was the Federation."

      The throbbing in Avon's temple increased.  _Let it end here_ , he resolved.  He opened his mouth to confess.

      "I killed Blake," Tarrant blurted out before Avon could speak.  "He led me to believe that he was a bounty hunter about to turn us all in for the reward."

      Jeries and Vier were on him immediately, while the other three leveled their guns at Avon.  Jeries shoved him back into a wall, the barrel of his rifle hard against Tarrant's throat.  Vier tore the gun from Tarrant's hand, the gun that Tarrant hadn't used in his own defense.

      Vier glared at Avon, his dark eyes blazing with anger.  "Did you know that?"

      "It was a mistake," Avon replied, referring to how he had come to shoot Blake.  He realized, instantly, that wasn't what he should have said.  They thought he was defending Tarrant.  He should have first exposed the young man's lie.  Now they wouldn't believe the truth.  They'd presume that Avon was **lying** to protect Tarrant.

      "Damn, damn, damn," Jeries cursed.  His barely suppressed rage seemed close to exploding into physical violence.

      "Blake played a dangerous game," Tarrant said evenly.  "It cost him.  I regret what I did.  But under the same circumstances, I'd do the same thing again."

      "Shut up."  Jeries increased the pressure against Tarrant's neck.

      "Shoot him," Bronan, the youngest of the three guards, prodded.

      Jeries shook his head.  "That's too easy, too merciful.  A hanging would be more appropriate."

      Avon took a deep breath and pushed to his feet.  "Oh very good.  You're going to allow this, are you?" he asked Vier.  "A lynching to honor Blake?  You think he'd sanction that?"

      "He killed Blake."

      "As he explained, he believed that Blake was a threat."

      "Blake was no threat to rebels," Jeries growled.  "Only to our enemies."

      "Tarrant had never met Blake.  He could only judge the man that was presented to him."

      "Tarrant was Federation once," Vier retorted.  "Perhaps he still is.  Do you trust him, Avon?  Truly trust him."

      "I was with him for years.  I am with him now."

      Vier rubbed at the back of his neck, his eyes flickering with conflicting emotions.  After a lengthy silence, his face drooped.  "Release him," he said softly.

      "What?" Jeries head jerked around, not wanting to believe what he had heard.  "After what he did?"

      "We all knew the risks of Blake's bounty hunter routine.  Deva warned him many times.  Release him."

      Jeries took a half step back, then with blinding swiftness clubbed his gun against the side of Tarrant's head, sending him sprawling.  "It's the least he deserves," he spat.

      Avon lunged for Jeries in return.  Vier's hand snaked out to stop him, but it was Tarrant's voice that halted his attack.

      "Avon, don't.  There's been enough violence."

      With a shudder Avon stilled.  He shook free of Vier.  "Perhaps you should leave now."

      "We will."  Vier gestured to his men.  They filed through the door, Vier last.  He paused on the threshold.  "Avon, would you like a ride to Vanash?  Just you."

      Avon didn't dignify the question with a reply, but he did offer a final admonition.  "It would harm both Blake's reputation and the rebellion if word of this spreads.  Let him remain a martyr, Vier."

      "I'd already decided to do that."  With shoulders hunched, the rebel stepped onto the porch, pulling the door closed behind him.

      Only then did Avon allow himself to look at Tarrant.  He was struggling to a sitting position with one hand pressed to a cut on his right temple.  Blood ran down his cheek, but no more than one would expect from a minor head wound.

      Determining that Tarrant wasn't seriously injured, Avon unleashed the anger that had been building inside him.  He crouched down and shook the man's shoulders.  "Why did you lie?"

      "I didn't lie.  My words precipitated the shooting.  You said that yourself.  I killed Blake."

      "You fool."

      "One of a pair then.  You were going to tell them what you did.  I saw it in your eyes.  They would have killed you, Avon."

      "They might have killed you."

      "I trusted you to prevent that."  Tarrant stumbled to his feet then had to catch the wall for support.  He grimaced and lurched, taking all of his weight on his right leg.

      "If you've damaged your leg and delayed our trip to Vanash, I'll..."

      "You'll what?" Tarrant challenged.  "Leave me?  Go on then." He nodded his head toward the front of the house.  "They haven't taken off yet.  Go.  It's what you planned to do eventually anyway."

      Avon's fury fled in a despairing sigh.  "I had thought to get you somewhere safe before leaving.  A rather futile goal, given your reckless nature."  He put a hand to Tarrant's arm.  "Let me help you to the sofa."

      After traversing the short distance at a shuffle, Tarrant sank heavily into the cushions.  Avon lifted his feet and propped them on the table.  A quick examination didn't reveal any obvious new damage, but from the way Tarrant was pressing his lips together, his leg was hurting, badly.

      "I'm sorry we don't have any painkillers."  Avon reached for the whiskey bottle.  It was still a quarter full.  He poured a large measure into a glass and handed it to Tarrant.  "Have some of this."

      While Tarrant sipped his drink, Avon cleaned and dressed the cut on his head.  Afterward, he poured a measure of whiskey for himself, threw three logs onto the fire, and returned to work on the generator.  Forty minutes later he had it running.

      "That's a start," Tarrant said.  His neck was craned, allowing him to watch Avon.

      "Only a start," Avon cautioned.  "I'll activate the charger."

      Tarrant rose carefully to his feet.  "You'll need my help.  It's going to be tricky calibrating the power output.  Feed it too quickly and you'll burn out the entire system."

      "I can figure it out."

      "You've never done it before."  Tarrant slipped into his coat.  "One mistake and we'll be walking to Vanash.  I'd prefer to fly."

      Not completely trusting Tarrant, Avon hovered close as the pilot tramped back and forth from charger to flyer.  After a half dozen such trips and as many adjustments to the various equipment, Tarrant announced, "That should do it.  I've got it feeding at a steady, safe pace.  Anything more and we risk a power surge that would damage the circuitry."

      "How long?" Avon asked.

      Tarrant shrugged.  "Two-three hours minimum.  It will be dark by then," he observed.  "It might be best to spend another night here."

      "I had hoped..." Avon's voice cut off.  The thought of civilization was very appealing.

      "We're both tired," Tarrant argued, adding, "I'd like to soak my leg, now that we have hot water again."

      "Very well.  We'll leave at first light."

                                 *     *     *

      Feeling wonderfully relaxed, Tarrant prepared to abandon the tub.  He glanced with a smile to the clean, folded underwear waiting for him.  Not only had he goaded Avon into preparing them a meal, but he had also persuaded him to do the laundry.

      Though Avon had put on a show of protest, he'd complied readily enough.  Tarrant knew Avon was even more uncomfortable with grubby attire than he was.  And there was no knowing when the opportunity to freshen their meager wardrobe would present itself again.

      Tarrant brushed his teeth, ran a comb through his hair, and, noticing the stubble on his chin, shaved.  He wasn't particularly sleepy, but the thought of plunking his body down in one place and not moving until morning was appealing.  Out of shape after months of inactivity, his muscles were protesting every abuse they'd been subjected to since leaving the rebel encampment.

      Tarrant was surprised to find Avon in the bedroom, wrapped in a robe and perched on a corner of the mattress.  Surprised and also relieved.  He had noticed Avon frequently eyeing the bookshelf as he tackled his chores.  Tarrant had been half afraid he would curl up with Blake's diary as soon as he was alone.

      Suddenly aware of his state of half dress, Tarrant spent a panicked second searching for his borrowed pajamas or robe.  Then he calmed, grinning at his foolishness.  It wasn't as if Avon hadn't seen him stark naked often enough during their years together.  It was a little late to pretend to virginal modesty.  If he wasn't careful, he'd be catching Avon's eccentricities.

      "Did you lose something?" Avon asked.

      "Reality," Tarrant responded, "but I've found it again."  Ignoring Avon's quizzical look, he began to layer his freshly laundered clothes into his backpack.  When finished, he transferred the pack to a chair and flopped on the comforter.  "Are you coming to bed?  You said you wanted to get an early start in the morning."

      "Shortly."  Avon twisted around until he was kneeling on the mattress facing Tarrant.  Something glinted in his hand.  "I thought your leg could use a little pampering."

      Tarrant recognized the object in Avon's fist as the tube of ointment provided by the rebel medic.  Before he could think of an excuse to defer the treatment, Avon had squirted a supply into his hands and was reaching for Tarrant's ankle.

      Resting back against the pillow, Tarrant reconciled himself to the therapy, while trying to think of anything except Avon's hands smoothing along his leg.  Which was impossible. Avon's fingers were silk, caressing his skin with the lightest possible touch.  They worked around, front to back, moving steadily upward.  As they slid onto the soft tissue of his inner thigh, Tarrant felt a quickening in his middle.

     

      Reaching to replenish his supply of lotion, a stirring caught Avon's eye.  He smiled with amusement at the twitch in Tarrant's drawers.  Young hormones!  Avon was prepared to make a joke about randy boy pilots when a hand caught his chin.

      "Don't look there," Tarrant said softly as he tilted Avon's head until they were face to face, "look here."  A gleam of passion was warming Tarrant's ice blue eyes.

      It didn't totally surprise Avon.  His image of a pouting lover hadn't been absurd after all.  Perhaps he'd known that all along, but self interest had persuaded him to deny it.  He didn't want any emotional entanglements complicating his relationship with Tarrant.

      Yet there was a little whisper at the back of his mind, asking why he'd allowed the situation to get this far.  Why tempt Tarrant when he knew the man's interest was fixed?

      Avon dropped his eyes to study the rangy form.  It was almost a gawky physique, one that hadn't quite filled out yet.  It lacked Blake's sturdy maturity.  Blake's body had been as assured as his personality.  Tarrant was still in the formative stages.

      "Avon."  Tarrant's voice was a whisper.  "I'm not asking for a commitment or even for any active participation on your part.  I would like to make love to you for just one night, to show you that you're still alive."  Tarrant chuckled; it was a sad chuckle.  "I have selfish motives as well--my own pleasure."

      In answer Avon shrugged out of his robe, but left his shorts on, then stretched out on the bed, placing his crossed arms between his pillow and his head.  He wasn't enthusiastic.  Passive cooperation was simply less of an effort than putting Tarrant off.

      As if sensing Avon's apathy, Tarrant appeared hesitant as he positioned himself above the other man.  He lowered his body carefully so that the only contact between them was at their lips.  Gently, he sucked a path around Avon's mouth, drawing in small sections at a time, caressing each area, then moving on.  After completing the circle, he widened his mouth and coaxed a path between Avon's teeth, his tongue bringing a taste of mint with it.

      Avon found the pace maddeningly slow.  He wanted this over.  Reaching his arm around, he smoothed his hand over Tarrant's shoulder, deliberately avoiding the curls that fringed the pilot's neck.  Those springy coils were too mindful of Blake.  His fingers urged the young man to get on with it.

      Apparently Tarrant understood the message because he pressed the length of his body against Avon's, undulating it slightly.  Avon was struck by the rugged hardness of Tarrant's frame.  The lean muscles and the firmness in his groin massaged Avon with a vigor that was not unpleasant.

      Tarrant's mouth moved down to Avon's neck.  It was hot and pulsing against the tender skin, shooting a warm bullet through Avon's indifference.  Avon stirred slightly as something kindled inside him.

      For a second Tarrant paused, his face burrowed into the sensitive flesh above the collar bone.  There was a sense of defeat about his stillness.  Then he pulled back and Avon could see a determined grin spreading across his face.  Tarrant began to run his hands through the brush of hair on Avon's chest, swirling over the nipples.  They hardened instantly.

      Avon's eyes went to Tarrant's torso.  The younger man's nipples were also stiff, bulging against the thin material of his undershirt.  Tarrant's obvious lust both thrilled and frightened him.  It was almost another of their battles, with Avon at a decided disadvantage because he wasn't sure he knew the rules or even the object of the game.

      Slipping his hands inside the waistband of Avon's shorts, Tarrant teased along the circumference for quite some time before tugging the material down over Avon's hips.  Avon shuddered as the cloth ruffled his penis.  The elastic band snagged for a second, causing an exquisite moment of friction.

      Avon had subconsciously tracked Tarrant's moods as the seduction progressed: the tentative beginning, a moment of discouragement, then stubborn resolve.  Now Tarrant appeared to be joyful.  A toothy smile lightened his face as he worked the shorts free.  After tossing them aside, he ran his hands up the outside of Avon's legs, stopping at his hips.

      Slanting his head to face Avon, Tarrant winked jauntily before lowering his face to the recumbent man's groin.  A burning moistness enveloped Avon's shaft, igniting a fire that generated a full erection.  Avon hissed and strained, reaching instinctively for Tarrant's hair and pressing him lower. 

      He couldn't deny that it felt good, and it had been a long time, and Tarrant clearly knew exactly what he was doing.  Clenching his teeth against a treacherous moan, Avon tugged the curly head away, his breath catching in wavery gasps, his body wanting...wanting so badly...

      "Avon," Tarrant's voice was gentle, filled with an unexpected compassion, "it's all right."  He slid back up in the bed, taking Avon in his arms, stroking his back, his hair.  "Relax.  Let it happen."  A wistful look came into the blue eyes.  "Pretend it's Blake," he whispered, kissing Avon again, letting his lips glide from mouth to throat, to chest...lower, working slowly, one hand encircling the shaft, the other creeping between Avon's legs to pet and fondle the testicles.

 _Pretend it was Blake..._   Avon wanted to laugh, but it caught in his throat and escaped as a groan.  It wasn't Blake.  It would never be Blake again, not in this life.  And he didn't know if he shared the Blake's conviction that there was more than this, more than one chance.

      Weaving his fingers into the curly hair, he noted the different texture, not really so reminiscent of those other curls.  The busy mouth and hands were making it hard to think clearly, were making Avon long to give into sensation; so easy to give into the feeling, really.

 

 _Yes, Avon, that's it.  Relax.  Let it come,_ Tarrant thought over and over, not sure if he said it aloud.  Only sure that it was working.  Avon's fingers twisted and pulled at his hair, his hips rising off the bed as if to offer Tarrant more of his body, breath coming hard, Tarrant's own body aching with sweet arousal.

      Then Avon was there, climaxing hard, crying out in the throes of his pleasure.  And if it was Blake's name he called, Tarrant chose not to hear.

      When it was over, Tarrant crawled alongside Avon, drawing him close, caressing the still trembling body.  Avon was shaking as if he were falling apart.  And maybe he was, inside.  Tarrant hoped he hadn't done wrong, forcing this confrontation.

      "It's all right," Tarrant soothed, rocking Avon lightly in his arms.  There were no tears, no sounds, but there was a sense of profound grief.  "It's all right," he repeated, feeling an empathic sorrow well up inside of him.  "Let him go, Avon.  Let everything go."

      After a long time, Avon's tremors ceased and his body grew limp.  Pulling back, Tarrant watched the man's eyelids drooping until his dark lashes fell against his pale skin.  He must have been exhausted, what with his disturbed sleep last night and all the emotional outpourings of the day.

      Tarrant brushed his lips across Avon's forehead and became aware of an ache in his groin.  Pleasuring Avon then the continued contact of their bodies had left him in a state of hard arousal.  He could of course relieve that himself, but that wasn't appealing, especially since it would force him to release Avon.  He'd enjoy this time of permitted contact and put up with the accompanying discomfort.  He snuggled closer, to where he could feel Avon's warm breath against his cheek and closed his eyes.

                                 *     *     *

      Shafts of silvery moonlight fell across the bed, greeting Avon when he woke.  Something was poking into his back, something that he determined to be Tarrant's arm.  He pulled it free and wriggled the kinks from his body.  Unfettered, Tarrant rolled onto his side, his back to Avon, the moonlight glinting softly off the white of his underwear.

      As he came more fully awake, Avon remembered what had happened:  Tarrant's seduction and the catharsis that had occurred after.  He had been mourning Blake, truly mourning him, for the first time.  Before that, guilt, anger, and denial had complicated his grief, turning it into something ugly, that Blake would never have approved of.

 _And what now?_ he asked as life without Blake stretched long, empty, and cold before him.  To spend it alone, isolated, or...  His eyes drifted to the man beside him, the long, lean lines of the back, the childlike innocence suggested by how he clutched his pillow to his cheek.

      Tarrant couldn't replace Blake, nor could he truly be a substitute for him.  Tarrant was too much his own man.  While he and Blake shared many traits, such as impossibly optimistic natures, there were more than their share of differences.  There was Tarrant's boundless, youthful energy that not even his impaired leg could contain.  Tarrant had given him a heady taste of that vitality tonight, had invited Avon to tap into the fires that raged inside him.

      It might work...if he gave it a chance.

      Before he could change his mind, Avon tugged at Tarrant's undershirt, gently yanking it from the younger man's body.  Tarrant murmured a protest, flailed weakly with his hands, then came awake as Avon repeated the procedure with his shorts.

      "Avon?  What?"  Tarrant's eyes were wary, almost frightened.

      "I believe we neglected something earlier," he said, trying to project tenderness, drawing on memories of Blake to get the emotion right.

      Avon bent his head to Tarrant's, brushing his lips over the younger man's instantly responsive mouth, tongue delving between the parted lips.  Tarrant's arms were around him, pulling him closer, his hardness sprouting between them.

      "Avon," Tarrant's voice was breathless from the deep kiss, "is this a dream?"

      "No dream."  Avon's lips trailed along one sinewy arm while his hand grasped Tarrant's shaft.  Determining it was too dry for proper attention, Avon scooted down and took it in his mouth.

      Tarrant's body writhed beneath Avon's questing lips, encouraging him to continue his assault.  It was intensely satisfying to find that he was still capable of provoking such a passionate response.  Parting Tarrant's legs, Avon slid a finger inside him and teased at his prostate.  Tarrant gasped his approval, his muscles palpitating around the invading digit.  As Avon increased the pressure of his massage, Tarrant shuddered and moaned.

      "Oh, oh-h-h...stop."

      Puzzled, Avon obliged.  "Is something the matter?"

      "I'll come too fast this way," Tarrant stammered between ragged breaths.  "I'm too excited.  I want it to last.  Save that for another time."

 _Another time?_ Avon wondered, not sure whether to be perturbed by Tarrant's presumption or pleased by his quick grasp of the situation.  Yes, Fate willing, there would be other times.

      Tarrant rolled away, fumbled with something on the nightstand, then rolled back.  "Shaving lotion," he mumbled as he squirted it onto Avon's manhood.

      "It's cold," Avon yelped, followed by, "Who ever heard of using shaving lotion?"

      "I'll warm you quickly enough," Tarrant promised as he covered his own erection with the white foam, then tossed the container aside.  "Now."

      Pushing Avon flat on the bed, Tarrant climbed on top and began to rub against him with an urgent, rocking motion.  Avon felt that wonderful fire inside of him rekindle.  "Shaving lotion," he grumbled before he captured Tarrant's head and pulled it close for a series of deep kisses.

      There was so much new and exciting, exploring the contours of Tarrant's body, finding the spots that elicited gasps of delight, that Avon wasn't immediately aware of how complete his own arousal was.  Then it was difficult to think of anything else as his shaft caught and echoed the rhythm of Tarrant's movements.

      Tarrant hadn't been exaggerating his readiness.  Much sooner than Avon would have thought possible, he felt a warm moistness splatter across his abdomen.  The younger man collapsed half on him, half beside him, and took Avon's still firm organ in his hand.

      "Would use my mouth," he tickle-whispered into Avon's ear, "but the shaving lotion tastes awful."

      "I told you that was a stu-," Avon sucked in a breath as Tarrant's hand squeezed along the length of his shaft.  He could feel his climax building to a joyous crescendo.  Arching his back, a second warm bath sprayed across his middle.

      Tarrant curled his long limbs about Avon while murmuring soft, contented noises into his ear.  One finger began to trace a path across Avon's chest.  Avon cherished the sensations and the closeness.  Eventually, the wanderings of Tarrant's fingers grew slower and slower, then stopped completely.  Thinking Tarrant was asleep, Avon grudgingly conceded, "The shaving cream wasn't such a bad idea after all."

      A sluggish voice drawled a reply.  "Better be careful with the frivolous compliments, I might get a swelled head."

                                  *    *    *

      "That's it," Tarrant said, closing the cover of the drive housing.  "Have you loaded our gear?"

      "Fifteen minutes ago.  Shall we push this into the yard?"

      "You do it.  I've a bad leg."  With a grin, Tarrant took off at a run on his _bad_ leg.  "I forgot something," he called over his shoulder, relishing the glower that he'd put on Avon's face.

      Everything was going to be all right, he realized happily as he clattered across the porch.  Oh, Avon wasn't going to recover overnight, but at least he'd started on the road.  And if he should falter, Tarrant would be there to help him.

      "Someday he'll want this," Tarrant said, slipping Blake's diary from the shelf.  He tucked it into his jacket and gave it a friendly pat, feeling an unforeseen camaraderie with Roj Blake.  "Maybe we'll both read it together."

      Avon had the flyer positioned in the clearing and was climbing on board.  Tarrant clamored into the pilot's seat and triggered the drive before Avon could question him or complain.  As he cleared the treetops, he spared a glance for his shipmate and lover, and smiled.

      Avon smiled back

 

**The End ******

**Author's Note:**

> [1] Recounted in 'Some Guys Have All the Luck' in 'Fire and Ice 2'.


End file.
